THERE are a lot of conspiracy theories flying around at the moment. Some are funny and relatively harmless, like people saying the Queen is a shapeshifting lizard and others are a bit more dangerous like the Qanon movement which has been gaining traction in America. 

My favourite conspiracy theory I’ve come across though has to be one involving, inexplicably, yours truly. 

It was sent to me by a pal who frequents an online forum. Someone posted in this forum saying they’d just recently come across my work but were sceptical of my ‘working class credentials’. 

Another user then said they’d done ‘a bit of research’ on me and claimed that both my parents were actually doctors from Jordanhill and that I wasn’t actually from the east end. They also claimed I had studied at Glasgow University. 

All of this was total lies but I was really quite amused by the way in which others in the forum agreed with this claim despite having no evidence to back any of it up. 

My maw was delighted to hear that people thought she was actually a doctor. There are deeper points that this kind of thing brings up. 

Some people seem to think that a working-class person succeeding in the arts is incomprehensible, that for them to do so they must not actually be working class or that they’re simply ‘not working class enough’.  

It also speaks of a kind of internalised classism, that creative pursuits are not for the likes of us and anyone trying to pursue such a career is a dafty, a dreamer and to be laughed at. 

You see it all the time online; someone starts a new hobby, maybe doing a bit of writing, making wee videos, maybe they’ve taken up photography and there will be a few snidey comments from folk saying they’re rubbish at what they’re doing, that they need to get a grip, that they’re not funny etc. It’s a real shame and I think it puts a lot of talented people off trying to get themselves out there so they can try and make a living from what they love doing. I could go on about this weird kind of classism all day but I want to take this opportunity to start a new, better, conspiracy theory about myself. 

I’m actually in a secret organisation that runs the world, a shadowy society that controls politics, the global energy supply, the media and everything else you can think of. The people you think are actually in charge? Nah, they’re just puppets and we’re the ones controlling them. I’m in the Illuminati. I’m not very high up though, I’ve only just recently joined. I make the tea for t he guy who makes the coffee just now. But I still get to go to the meetings and all that. 

We meet up every month or so on an a wee island in the Pacific Ocean where no one would ever find us. We get flown there on private jets, it’s class. 

I was asked to join as they thought I’d be good at writing speeches for world leaders and other various bits of propaganda to keep things moving the way we want them to. Remember the Dominic Cummings fiasco? That was all me. 
I came up with the driving to Barnard Castle story for a laugh. He’s in the Illuminati as well but he’s even lower down the ranks than me. Sometimes at the meetings I’ll slap his big daft baldy heid, just because I can, and he can’t do anything about it or he’ll get ostracised from the group. 

We had one of our meetings last weekend. I annoy everyone at these meetings though because I only chime in to ask what else we could be doing to help Celtic win 10 in a row. 

‘McQueer,’ our leader said from the head of the table, gravy dripping down his chin from the dinner prepared for us by the best chefs in the world. ‘There are far more pressing matters to attend to than football, do you not agree?’ 

‘Aye, I suppose,’ I said. ‘But we might as well use our power to have a laugh, eh?’ 
The room fell silent. I received a lecture on how I needed to learn my place, to not speak out of turn and to be more professional.

‘Well wit’s the point in aw this,’ I said. ‘If I cannae use this opportunity to further things that benefit me?’ 

‘We got you a weekly column in the Glasgow Times so you could get all this nonsense out of your head and onto paper so you wouldn’t ruin our meetings with it, McQueer,’ said the leader. 

‘Och, yous like ma nonsense,’ I said. I looked to everyone around the table as they averted their eyes away from me. It seemed they did not. 

‘Fine then,’ I said. ‘Am away. This wee group is rubbish anyway. Find somebody else tae make yer tea.’ 

Dominic Cummings had a wee sneer at me but a quick skelp of his shiny dome on my way out shut him up.